[Posting with permission from Frostie to heal Arah. ;D]

Romani again, she roamed and roamed, scoured and searched, explored and yearned for icicles and snow, for glaciers and sunlight, and all her eyes touched upon were the traces of darkness and the sullen promises of sanctuary. It carved her into a restless beast again, hoping and contorting through the raptures, the reverie, of sonnets and aspirations, sculpting and molding the wicked doldrums into meticulous, mellifluous chords, varnishing and weaving until they became spoken, hallowed words. The drumbeats of malevolence chased her down the runes of the outerworld, and no matter how many times she wished, craved, longed for the harpsichord rhapsody of the Basin, of its auroras, of all the stars lit by backdrops of fairies and feys, all she saw were caverns, crusades, and the daunting force of chaos brushing back against her. Even her companions, lost and forlorn as she, weren’t traced through the bewitching, eldritch decadence, bleak and abandoned in the tranquil finery, brethren descended into the fathomed depths of the unknown. She worried, mulled, meandered, and traced the inelegant anxieties of the tribulations they could have faced: had they been poisoned too, by the noxious blend of venom surrounding copses and corpses? Had they been ruined and obliterated, scorched and singed by the anarchic trebles and specious gales? Had they dissipated into the throngs of unholy vehemence, exterminated and slaughtered? Or were they down within these walls too (the hardy, shrewd Faelene, the golden Illynx, the nefarious Deimos, the stalwart Deodat, the wise, beautiful Huyana), counting the days, the months, the seasons and years before their return to the summits and peaks? Or were they doomed to rest in the gallows of this rocky labyrinth, restless and forlorn, lost and forged into paintings and tapestries? When would this world cease to be a haven, and suddenly a snare?

A scent billowed into her nares, brought her shimmering tension to a fallen crescendo: Arah. She hadn’t seen the dainty, limber, ivory femme in ages, and to know that she’d found safe quarters, that at least one of them had not been swindled upon the bestial dais of damnation, enlightened the fabric of her movements. She followed in a dancing sway, Imogen in tandem, effortless and lithe, minuet in harbored aims. As she grew closer, the press of other scents flowed along her frame, one of their Weaver (another found guarded, protected and shielded from the fray), and then two unknown breaths of air. Expectations were not diminished, but upon reaching the state of the gathering, only surprise kindled across her features.

Children. Like a puff of gentle, flowing, ethereal quandaries, twins nestled in porcelain and gold, marked and courted in beautiful, intriguing patterns, splashes of Arah, and undoubtedly, the father. A brief smile brewed along her face, a suggestive wink towards Crowley, for at least, she presumed the antlered woman had found beloved whims and fancies in the crafter (and if not, at least he safeguarded like a brindled knight), and then the coiling of her reverie bubbled from the lull of her tunes. “Congratulations!” Tenderly, slowly, a gradual step, a petal soft waltz, courted the draw of her frame towards the babes and the mother. “They are beautiful.” A generous smile swept across her lips, etched deeply into the ebullient might of her singsong chords. Imogen paraded ever nearer, sniffing the length of their gangly limbs, chirping in delight at their juvenile sways and stature. Ever stalwart and observant, Lena breathed and eased the sweet croons, the delicate murmurs, of assuaging, of mending, of healing, from the burdens of her heart; instant, lean, strong and whimsical, like the chorus of sanguine seraphs and compassionate nymphs, gliding towards the twins and their wonderful dam. Be safe, be strong, be swift.